


hum hallelujah

by abovetheruins



Series: be still my soul [1]
Category: American Idol RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, First Meetings, M/M, Music Teacher!Archie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-27
Updated: 2015-05-27
Packaged: 2018-04-01 13:21:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4021363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abovetheruins/pseuds/abovetheruins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>He doesn’t know what drew him here.</i> Cook winds up at a church in a time of need and hears something extraordinary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	hum hallelujah

**Author's Note:**

> This idea popped into my head when I was flying home from Utah back in March. I blame it on Archie’s version of _Be Still My Soul_ , which I had on repeat the entire time. This will the first part in a series, so there will be a sequel (and possibly more?) Let me know what you think! :)

The church is mostly empty, barely a handful of people scattered among the pews. Cook sits in the back staring at the empty pulpit, the stained glass windows darkened by the night sky outside, and wonders (not for the first time) what he’s doing here.

He certainly hadn’t planned on it; he’d started the night off at home in old sweats and a ratty t-shirt, feeling so sorry for himself that he was making his fucking self sick. He couldn’t call anybody, knew whoever he got on the line would give him the same brand of pitying he’d been on the receiving end of for too goddamn long now, and he couldn’t spend one more second in the house, too quiet, no distractions. He’d needed to get _out_.

He doesn’t know what drew him here, only that he’d been driving, listless, no clear destination in mind. He’d nearly passed the little church completely, but the lights in the windows had caught his eye, the spattering of cars in the parking lot indicating that it was still open, and he’d turned off the main road without a second thought. 

He feels decidedly out of place in his beat up leather jacket and jeans, and he spares a second to feel ashamed at the bags under his eyes and the state of his beard, knows he looks like a fucking mess. 

No one spares him a second glance, though, and Cook feels a sense of anonymity that he hasn’t experienced in years as he sits there, a stranger in a room full of strangers. 

He doesn’t really know what he expects from this little spur of the moment venture. He’s tried everything else, though; the treatments aren’t doing shit, none of the doctor’s suggestions are making any goddamn difference. He can’t stand the sound of his own voice anymore, the raw, hoarse quality of it grating on his ears any time he tries to speak. Can’t stand being around people either, hates the pitying looks they send him, the calculating gazes of his management team as they scramble to rearrange tour dates, interviews, appearances. And then there’s the press clamoring for the story, David Cook and his fucked up vocal chords, camping out in front of his doctor’s office, hurling their questions as his security team ushers him inside, asking if his illness has permanently affected his voice, if he’ll be able to perform again, if this is the end of his singing career. _Fuck_.

His mom tells him to be patient, to follow doctor’s orders and rest his voice, that things will be fine in the end if he just gives it time, but the longer he waits the more it seems like his voice isn’t going to get better; the more time that passes without improvement the more he finds himself slipping further and further into a hole he’s not sure he knows how to get back out of. 

He’s angry all the time, bitter in a way he’s never felt before. He’s no fit company for anybody, finds himself snapping at the band, his agent, his _mom_ , and he’d rather smash his best guitar than hurt her in any way. He feels overwhelmed and out of control, though, like he can’t fucking get himself together, and so it’s easier to just keep to himself rather than inflict his company on the people he cares about. 

Cook’s never been one to rely on faith, or God, never put much stock in religion or prayer, but at this point he feels like he has nothing to lose. He can’t keep going on the way he has been, so damn angry all the time, and this – sitting in this church, grasping for something he’s never really even believed in – might not help at all, it might not do anything for him, but at least it’s _something_. 

He’s about to clasp his hands together, the movement awkward and unpracticed, when a noise up at the pulpit distracts him. Someone’s come out of one of the doors off to the side, a young man holding papers in his hands, rifling through them as he climbs the few steps up to the stage. 

Some of the people towards the front say something to him, wave, and the guy glances up, smiling and saying something back. He’s dark-haired and olive-skinned, dressed in jeans and a plaid shirt, but that’s about all Cook can determine from his spot in the back.

The guy slides onto the bench in front of the baby grand set up on the stage, setting the papers – music sheets, Cook guesses – on the podium. He lifts the cover on the keys, plays a few lilting notes; they echo in the spacious church, clear as a bell, and Cook feels his shoulders slumping as the guy continues to play. It’s soothing, pretty music, though Cook doesn’t recognize it. He wonders what the song is called, or even if it has a name.

As soon as the thought enters his head, the guy on stage opens his mouth and starts to sing, and Cook forgets to think at all.

“ _Be still my soul: the Lord is on thy side  
With patience bear thy cross of grief or pain  
Leave to thy God to order and provide;  
In every change, He faithful will remain_.”

Without realizing it Cook’s moved forward, leaning towards the pulpit, arms hanging over the pew in front of him. His eyes are wide and locked on the young man as he continues to sing. 

“ _Be still, my soul: thy best, thy heavenly friend  
Through thorny ways leads to a joyful end._”

All other sound in the church – the hush of quiet voices, the shifting of bodies in the pews – has ceased in the wake of the voice pouring from the man on stage; either that, or Cook’s simply blocked it all out, focused on nothing but the words and the music and that _voice_. 

“ _Be still, my soul: thy God doth undertake_  
To guide the future, as He has the past.  
Thy hope, thy confidence let nothing shake;  
All now mysterious shall be bright at last.”

He’s never heard anything like it, breathy but strong, low one moment but soaring into an upper register that leaves goosebumps trailing up and down Cook’s arms in its wake. 

When it ends, both the voice and the music trailing away into silence, Cook watches with a slack mouth as the man ruffles his sheet music, closes the cover over the keys with a smile, and leaves the stage, disappearing into the back without a backward glance.

Cook glances in shock at the other people scattered around him; they’re carrying on almost as if nothing had happened, talking quietly or approaching the altar to toss a couple of bills onto the collection plate. Some are leaving, smiles on their faces, but no one’s acting as if they’d heard what Cook had just heard.

He swallows, for once not cursing at the tell-tale burn in his throat, and slumps down in his seat. 

_Who the hell was that?_

//

He winds up at the church again the next night, and the next.

He migrates closer to the pulpit each night, first a few rows from the back, then to a seat in the middle pew, until finally he winds up just three rows from the stage.

Each night he waits, anticipation thrumming like a beat beneath his skin, for the young man with the incredible voice to take to the stage. It happens like clockwork each time; around eight-thirty the backstage door will open and the man will come out, sheet music in his hands. He’s always dressed casually, jeans and checkered shirts and sneakers, and he nods hello to the people in the front row before settling down at the piano, lifting the cover off the ivory keys with a reverence that attests to his love for the instrument.

He always starts off slow, easy, warming up with snippets of melodies that Cook doesn’t recognize. He’ll hum too, always a few seconds before he starts to sing, and Cook will lean forward in his seat, cross his arms over the pew in front of him and just fall into the music and the almost ethereal quality of the man’s voice. He always plays hymns, but sometimes – when he’s transitioning between songs – he’ll play something Cook recognizes – _Imagine_ , _Stand by Me_. Once Cook was sure he heard the familiar strains of _Sweet Caroline_. It always startles a laugh out of him; he hides it behind his hand, but there are times when the man glances up, spots him, and smiles a little. It always makes something come to life in Cook’s chest when their eyes meet, something warm and familiar, but he dismisses it and focuses solely on the man’s voice.

It’s soothing, makes the tension bleed from his shoulders, all of the worry and the anxiety and the shit he’s had to deal with – the press who won’t get off his back, the doctors who never have any good news, the dust that he’s noticed gathering on his favorite guitar because the last time he’d touched it had been before… well, before – fading away, getting lost in the haze of beautiful music and that raspy voice.

The fourth night he’s there, after the man has come and gone, Cook winds up lagging behind longer than usual, lingering in his seat – second row from the front, now – as everyone else slowly filters out through the front doors. 

He studies the statue of Christ on the cross hanging above the pulpit, wondering what he thinks he’s doing, returning here night after night. There’s no point to it; he doesn’t pray, doesn’t entreat God for answers to his problems. He’s started leaving a few bills in the donation box to assuage the weird guilt he feels about it all; he knows it’s stupid, but it feels like he’s using the church for some nefarious purpose when really he just cannot get that voice out of his head. It’s crazy, but the couple of hours that he spends in the church listening to the man sing is really the only part of his day where he feels a sense of peace, where he doesn’t feel like he’s about to go out of his mind, where he can stop _thinking_ , if only for a little while.

“I’m fucked,” he mutters, tilting his head back and closing his eyes. There’s no doubt about it.

“Um, excuse me?”

Cook’s head shoots up so fast he nearly gives himself whiplash, his eyes landing on the person standing by his pew –

– who happens to be the same guy he’s been coming to this church every night to see. Of fucking course.

“Uh… “ he starts, feeling like an idiot, and then, realizing what he had just said a moment ago and where he had said it, hurries to apologize. “Shit. I mean, crap. Sorry about the cursing. Uh.” Christ, what is _wrong_ with him? “I’m just going to – “ He gets up, stumbling a little as he moves out of the pew and into the aisle. The guy doesn’t even back up, probably because Cook had moved too fast, so their shoulders brush as Cook makes to move past him.

“Wait!” A hand lands on Cook’s arm, fingers curling into his sleeve, and Cook stares at it for half a beat before the man says anything more. “Um, you don’t have to go.”

_Yeah, no. I really do_ , Cook thinks, cringing a little. He’s embarrassed himself enough for one evening. “Don’t you need to lock up or something?” he asks, not at all desperately. “I should probably get out of your hair.”

The man shakes his head. “No, no, it’s okay.” He seems to realize his fingers are still curled in Cook’s jacket; he pulls them back, his face a little flushed, though he doesn’t step back or otherwise try to put any space between them. “I actually – I’ve seen you? The past few nights?”

_Shit_. Cook has absolutely no idea what to say. _Sorry I’m such a creep_ , probably, or maybe a promise that he won’t come back, though he refuses to acknowledge the dread that settles in the pit of his stomach when he thinks about that. 

“Sorry,” he finally settles on, feeling his face heat up. He’s such a fucking mess. “I won’t, anymore – “

“Oh no, I don’t mind!” The guy sounds genuine enough; he actually looks a bit shocked that Cook had jumped to that conclusion at all. “I just wanted to ask – well, this is probably too forward of me, but. Do you maybe want to talk? Over, um. Coffee, or something?”

Cook just stares at him, his mouth slack. This… is not how he imagined this conversation going, at all. 

“Uh… “

The guy interrupts before Cook can say anything else – which is fortunate, because he has no idea how to respond. “It’s just that – you kind of seem like you need it? And I actually do have to close up, so we can’t really stay here.”

Cook continues to gawk like an idiot. Is this guy even for real? Does he realize what he’s asking? What it sounds like?

… Not that Cook would be against such a thing. The guy is definitely attractive, with his boyish smile and bright eyes. Coupled with that lush voice that Cook has been totally entranced by for the past few nights, and he’s certainly not averse to getting to know the younger man better.

Still, he has a feeling the guy isn’t angling for anything, er, untoward. He looks too innocent for that, and Cook kind of doubts he’s trying to pick him up in the middle of a church.

“I don’t even know your name,” he finally says, because he doesn’t, and because it’s the first thing that pops into his head. 

“Oh, of course! I’m David – David Archuleta.” He holds out his hand, all guileless smile and dimpled cheeks. It’s ridiculously endearing.

Cook slides his hands into David’s, pumping it twice. “David Cook,” he says. “You can call me Dave, if you’d like. Or Cook.”

“That’s funny,” David says, and then looks appalled. “Not your name, just that we have the same one. Um.”

Cook laughs without meaning to, and though his throat aches in the aftermath it doesn’t stop him from doing it again at the look on David’s face. “Hey, it’s okay. I knew what you meant.” He shrugs his shoulders, offering an easy grin. “Maybe it’s fate?”

David smiles, flashing a row of straight white teeth, and Cook’s laughter kind of dries up in his throat. “Maybe.” He tilts his head toward the front doors, brows raised. “So? What do you say?”

And okay, maybe Cook should just cut his losses here and leave, go home and stop coming back, because he still has no idea what he’s doing here, or why he’s so caught up with this guy’s voice. They don’t know each other, and with the way Cook’s been lately… He really doesn’t want to dump his problems at this guy’s feet.

But it’s been a long time since he could actually talk to someone, someone who wasn’t his doctor or part of his band or his family, someone who wouldn’t look at him with pity or disappointment or impatience. This guy didn’t seem to want anything from him except to offer an ear.

“ _It’s just that – you kind of seem like you need it?_ ” he’d said, and maybe he’s right.

“Lead the way,” Cook says before he can overthink it, offering up a smile that he’s not sure reaches his eyes, and takes a deep breath before following David out of the church.

//

They end up at a diner a few miles down the road. Cook had spent the entirety of the short trip over following David’s tail lights and trying to figure out what he’d say, how much he _could_ say. David hadn’t seemed to recognize who he was and didn’t seem like the type who would go running to some gossip mag to spill his secrets, but Cook has learned you can never be too careful.

Still, sitting across from David in the mostly deserted diner over plates of their best blueberry pie and steaming mugs (coffee for Cook, hot chocolate for David), Cook can’t help but relax into his seat, some of his concerns falling by the wayside as David continues to talk.

“I don’t actually work at the church, I just know the pastor and his wife? And they let me use the piano during the weekdays when they don’t have a service going on. I play in the choir, though, on Sundays? You should come sometime. I think you’d like it.”

Cook doesn’t bother to tell David that he’s really not much of a church-goer. He goes with his mom when he’s home and around holidays, but that’s about it. 

“Have you been playing long?” he asks instead, spearing a generous helping of pie with his fork. 

David smiles, nodding. “Yeah, since I was a kid. My mother taught me.”

“You play beautifully,” Cook tells him, and, because he can’t _not_ mention it, “You voice is pretty amazing, too.”

David ducks his head, wrapping his fingers around his mug. “Thank you,” he says softly, and then, “I noticed, um, you’re usually in the congregation whenever I play. Is that – I mean – “

Damn, this guy’s not pulling any punches, is he? Cook clears his throat, ignoring the familiar burn, and decides there’s nothing to lose by being honest.

“Yeah. Uh.” He mentions that first night, how he hadn’t planned to go to the church at all, how it’d been a spur of the moment decision. “And then you came out on stage and kind of blew me away, so… “ He trails off, a little embarrassed despite himself. It sounds fucking stupid when he says it out loud.

David looks surprised. “You really kept coming back just to hear me sing?”

Cook winces. “It’s weird, I know. I just – “

“It’s not weird at all,” David interrupts, flailing his hands a little. Cook’s noticed that he does that a lot when he’s flustered, or when he’s at a loss for words. “I’m just – I’m flattered, really. And surprised. My voice isn’t really anything special.”

Cook gawks. “Seriously? Your voice is fucking incredible, David.”

David shrugs his shoulders, grinning modestly. “Thank you, um. Again,” he says, before blinking curiously at Cook. “What about you? Do you sing?”

“Oh, uh – “ Cook would rather not have this conversation; he doesn’t want to see the same pitying look on David’s face as he’s seen on everyone else’s. He also doesn’t want to lie to the guy, though, even though that would probably be easier than telling him the whole sordid truth. _Fuck it_ , he thinks, putting down his fork. “I did. I _do_.” He clears his throat, studies the tabletop rather than David’s expression. “I’m in a band, actually. We’re working on a third album now, in-between touring and, uh.” He has to stop for a second; this is the easy part, the part he’s fine with talking about. He could spend hours at it, telling David all about the new album, the hours spent in his studio at home, the entire creative process. He has a feeling David would enjoy that conversation. 

“I got sick,” he continues. Unseen, his fingers curl into fists beneath the table. “About a month ago. Laryngitis. Docs put me on vocal rest, told me to take it easy. I thought I’d get better.”

“But you didn’t,” David says quietly, after Cook’s been silent for a while. Cook nods, clears his throat, eyes trained on his half-eaten dessert rather than risking a glance at his companion.

“Yeah. Docs told me I should have seen some progress in two to three weeks, but I didn’t seem to be getting any better. I could talk, but that was about it.” He doesn’t mention the nights spent numbing his throat with painkillers, or the only time he’d tried to sing and had to stop after the first few lyrics had barely left his mouth, his throat on fire while he coughed and coughed and couldn’t _breathe_. He doesn’t mention the fear or the panic that had gripped him each time he pressed a wad of tissue to his mouth after a coughing fit and pulled it away speckled with blood. 

“I was in the middle of a tour when it hit me. I had to cancel appearances, rearrange dates.” He’d hated having to do any of it, disappointment sitting like a lead weight in his stomach each time his management team had called a meeting, frantically switching dates and venues until they’d started tentatively suggesting canceling the rest of the tour entirely. “And it never really stopped. I wasn’t getting better, I couldn’t perform. Eventually we had to put a hold on the rest of the tour.” He hadn’t bothered to check the message boards or fan sites to check the fallout to that announcement, even though he felt like a fucking coward hiding away from it.

“My doctor – he’s been suggesting a surgical procedure that might help, but there’s always the chance that it won’t, or that it’ll fuck up my vocal cords. I haven’t agreed to anything yet; I guess I’m still hoping it’ll go away on its own, or that the treatments will finally kick in.” He shrugs, clamps his lips shut. He fucking hates talking about this, and he wouldn’t be surprised if he’d scared David off now, dumping all of it on him. “Listen, I’m sorry for rambling about this, I’ll just shut up – “

“Hey.” David rests his hand on the table in Cook’s line of sight, and when Cook finally looks up he’s relieved to see not pity on David’s face, but sympathy, as well as something that looks like understanding. “You seriously don’t have to apologize for that. Sometimes it helps, you know? To talk about it?”

Cook’s not so sure about that. He feels like all he’s _done_ is talk about it – to his manager, his friends, his doctors – and it’s never seemed to have done any good, never done much of anything but make him feel more frustrated, helpless. 

It’s nice not to have someone offer up careful optimism in the face of it all, though, like his family and friends are prone to doing. David’s not grilling him for more details either, not urging him to say anything more than he’s comfortable with, not like the goddamn press, and that does help stave off the sense of frustration that he usually feels after conversations like these. 

Still, he’s reached the limit of his patience with the subject, can feel the bitterness clinging to his tongue the more he thinks about it. Rather than end up snapping at David or saying something he’ll regret later, he offers up a somewhat shaky grin and says, “Enough about me, okay? Tell me something else about you.”

He can tell by the look on David’s face that he’s not fooling anybody with the abrupt subject change, but thankfully the younger man doesn’t call him out on it. He starts talking about his job at the local elementary school (“I teach music and lead the school choir,” he explains, and it’s clear by the soft, happy smile on his face how he feels about the work. “It’s only my first year there but I really love it.”) and about preparing for their first show. Cook loses himself in the conversation, interjecting every now and then to ask questions which David always answers with enthusiasm, the breathy cadence of the other man’s voice soft and soothing to his ears. 

By the time the waitress has come and gone with their check (Cook snatching it before David has a chance with a succinct, “I don’t think so. You listened to me ramble all night, so it’s on me.”) two hours have somehow passed without Cook even being aware of it. David looks just as surprised when he glances at his watch, and his, “Oh gosh, when did it get so late?” makes Cook smile.

“I guess that’s our cue to scram, huh?” he asks, and David’s flustered glance at his face only makes his grin widen. 

“Um, yeah. I’m sorry, but I have class in the morning. Well, in about eight hours, actually.”

Cook waves off his apology. “Hey, it’s okay. I really didn’t mean to keep you so late.”

“Oh no, I enjoyed it, really!” David sounds so earnest Cook has no choice but to believe him, and something like satisfaction warms his chest at the thought that David’s enjoyed their time together. 

“Same here,” he says, voice low, and he doesn’t think he’s imagining the subtle flush on David’s cheeks when he catches the younger man’s eye.

They walk out of the diner together after settling the check, and before Cook can even think to say his goodbyes, swallowing the words on the tip of his tongue (“Can I see you again?”) David beats him to it.

“Um, would you mind if we met up again, sometime?” He has his keys out and is fidgeting with them, a nervous gesture that Cook can’t help but associate with typical first date behavior, and he has to tell himself to get a grip before he does or says something stupid. “I mean, if you want?” David adds.

“Yeah, that’d be – uh, that’d be great.” Smooth, Dave, he thinks, mentally rolling his eyes at himself. 

They exchange numbers (he puts his in David’s phone under the name _Cook :)_ ) and after a slightly awkward goodbye, both of them floundering a little as to how to leave things until finally David slides their palms together in a handshake that seems strangely disappointing after the hours of conversation they’d just shared. 

“Goodbye, Cook,” David says, smiling before ducking into his car, and Cook waves him away with a low. “Goodbye, David” in return, watching his headlights shrink into the distance and then eventually disappear.


End file.
